


Equilibrium

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Blowjobs, Comedy, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Harry Lives, Hartwin, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Kingsman: The Secret Service, Romance, Sexual Roleplay, Smut, Sugar Daddy, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, wait are we even tagging that now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:52:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12147063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Harry does feel like a dirty old man sometimes.He's coming to terms with the fact he loves it.A series of snapshots of established Hartwin, with some exploration of them embracing their dynamic and not a huge amount of actual plot but if you want a whole wadge of smutty, sappy, loved up romance porn then this one's on me. Enjoy. (Fyi, the actual daddykink is denoted and skippable if you'd like to avoid it.)





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> Good grief, I do not know what I was thinking with this one. It started as scrag ends of notes I cut from another Hartwin fic I was working on and then I thought ‘do something, anything with it, get it out there’ and set myself the deadline of tonight. Then what was going to be a series of vignettes developed a ‘squint and you might spot it’ plot, and I made a stab at probably THE most intricate bit of tense manipulation I’ve worked with. It should read as the present tense being the current or general state of affairs, with Harry reflecting on past anecdotes, but there are flashbacks within flashbacks so really if it doesn’t work I may rework it. But here it is.
> 
> If you'd like to skip the very mild daddykink, the section with it in is marked top and bottom by the bold asterisks. There's a one word throwback elsewhere, but you've read more than that in the summary so presumably if you've read this far you're prepared.

There is simply no escaping the fact that people are going to notice that Harry is significantly older than Eggsy. Harry frequently drinks wine that is older than Eggsy. He's fairly sure he owns a pair of corduroys that are older than Eggsy but he doesn’t wear them enough to warrant checking; the fact he's of an age at which one has even owned corduroys, let alone retired a few pairs, says it all.

Eggsy has definitely never worn corduroys.

He was hanging his suit into the wardrobe wearing ‘weekend’ clothes that Harry would never suggest he changed: a polo shirt and a pair of black jeans so close to skin tight around his sturdy thighs that it looked as though one might have an easier job cracking a safe than getting something in the pockets. Harry would doubtless try a hand, at some point, if he didn’t burn a hole right through with his eyes first.

“Those trousers are _indecent_ , Eggsy.” Eggsy turned to defend his fashion sense - a pointless exercise at the best of times - but Harry was smiling as he said it, eyes distinctly below belt level and that gave him away before he even got to his line. “You should probably take them off.”

Eggsy had outright smirked at him and kissed him on the jaw. “You're a dirty old man, Harry, you know that?”

“You have a unique ability to make that sound like a compliment.”

“Oh, it is. Trust me.”

He feels it, sometimes. When he looks at Eggsy, fresh in from a run, in heavy joggers and a sweat soaked vest, pulling his headphones from his ears and drinking water from the tap.  Or watching him on the rings and bars in the gym, clad in only obscene but apparently practical leggings and tape around his fingertips and the arches of his feet, bare chest and shoulders glistening as he vaults and hangs and stretches. That body is criminal. And it makes Harry only the more aware of his own waning lustre, the thickening layer of softness over the muscle that won't budge with all the training in the world … training that gets harder, year on year, when he's seen Eggsy ace his fitness tests with a champagne hangover before immediately insisting on a Wetherspoons all day breakfast with an inexplicably revolting side order of garlic bread.

Harry is an old fool, and he's in love with him.

It’s not that he’s detuning to how obvious their difference in background is, let alone the age gap… he’s just coming to terms with the fact he likes it,  actually. That he likes people noticing, the way they can’t keep the shock from showing on their faces whilst they stand processing all the possible implications. _Dirty old man, indeed._

More than once a stranger had referred to Eggsy as his ‘boy’ in a way that had been boundlessly ambiguous as to whether they'd thought him to be his son, his lover or his valet - perhaps they weren't sure which one they meant either, and were just hedging their bets - and it sent a horrid little prickle of lust skittering about under Harry's skin. Part of him really likes it when they’re scandalised. _Yes he's mine. Yes I fuck him. Yes we live together. Yes I suck his cock and bring him breakfast in bed and his ridiculous little lap dog has made a nest out of virtually all of both of our socks at the end of the bed which I can’t bear to disturb. Yes, the boy has me every bit as wrapped around his little finger as you'd think, and I couldn’t be happier about it._

Mostly he can’t believe his own luck. He looks at Eggsy and struggles to believe that someone so vibrantly, youthfully attractive would want to attach himself to a greying if admittedly fit, well educated and well off international super spy... alright, so Harry Hart still has some cards to play and he’s bloody well going to play them.

***

“Mrs Cheshire-Jones was giving me evils again.”

“Well if you will take out the recycling like _that.”_    _That_ happened in that instance to be a borderline-indecent pair of gym shorts and a tight, worn white t-shirt which was close to splitting its stitches around Eggsy’s biceps.

“What, she’s on one because she thinks your boy toy’s bringing down the tone of the neighbourhood?”

“I have a distressing feeling she thinks you’re my son, actually.” It was entirely possible. “July really was an inopportune time to move you in, you could’ve been home from university.”

“I’ll just have to make you scream my name a bit louder then, won’t I?”  God, as gauche as that line was the little shift of the hips it came with made it entirely plausible. Harry couldn’t imagine that would do a lot for neighbour relations but other than that he really struggled to find a problem in it. “And I think it’s pretty obvious I ain’t never been to university.”

And isn't that just lovely?   It’s one thing when they’re walking to the shop, or out anywhere suited up together. They cut an impressive dash, without a doubt, but there’s something predictable enough about a couple of well dressed poofs strolling around Knightsbridge that nobody really pays much mind. But with Eggsy dressed the way he did before, in SnapBack caps and designer hoodies that cost more than they had any right to - and in a testament to Eggsy’s learning he had conceded the vast difference between tailoring and a label -  nobody looks at all unless they’re openly affectionate and then they _stare_.

And yes, Harry likes it. So maybe he occasionally indulges Eggsy’s fondness for gaudy limited edition trainers - really, what is the use of being a secret agent if you can't use your resources to make sure you not only get a pair of the numbered special releases that sold out in seconds but that, where at all possible, you get the ones numbered 007?  It's the little things. It's also, If anyone stops to ask Merlin, a horrific misuse of sniping codes and his software expertise, but he owes Harry more favours than he could repay in a lifetime and underneath it all he is in fact a sucker for a love story.

***

Harry is a fan of click and collect. There's something deeply unsettling about having to sign for packages at the front door at some unspecified time on a day one probably has better things to do, especially now there's an overexcited, wheezing, slobbery loaf of pug to keep in check and quite often a nearly naked twenty three year old strutting about in his house. Alright, so Harry is less than upset by the prospect of his postal workers going home to gossip about the latter, but the threat of JB getting out from between his feet and of Harry being in some sort of unbecoming state of disarray is a real one.

So he times his various non grocery purchases to be where he wants them at the same time, and tends to turn it into a pleasant day out involving a lunch date and just being about town with Eggsy in a way he’s not _quite_ old enough to remember being referred to as 'promenading'. Strolling about from place to place windowshopping and picking up forgotten essentials in addition to the planned collections, revelling in Eggsy’s joy at having disposable income, perhaps treating him to odd bits and pieces because he an’t help it.

There was really very little neurolinguistic suggestion to steering Eggsy to the flagship Footlocker on Oxford Street on the way back to the tube, carting along enough bags that they were starting to cut grooves in their fingers. Was it in fact the day after the release of the shoes Eggsy had shown him on Instagram a while ago? He hadn’t been listening, sportswear isn’t his forte.

Which was of course why they oh-so-conveniently had a pair in Eggsy’s size for him to try on.

“Ahh man these are sweet as. They’ve probably all sold out on the preorder though.” Eggsy looked briefly, glassily wistful at his feet stretched out in front of him, sat on the padded bench, and then a bit confused, the beginning of deduction. “I'm surprised they-”

“Those are yours.”

“Serious?”  He stood up and looked down, wide eyed as though he’d not quite been willing to entertain the daydream before. “Ah Harry these are sick, thank you.”  He twisted on his feet  in front of the mirror, making a lovely job of showing off his snug-fitted jeans and everything they were clinging to in the process, putting on an inadvertent little show for everyone who’d stopped to look at a good looking lad with a dazzling smile showcasing the new shoes he was evidently over the moon with.

“Do I get a kiss?” Harry grinned indulgently and tilted his head.  Worth every moment of the effort.

“Oh, this gets you a hell of a lot more than a kiss.” Before he’d known it was happening Eggsy had stepped onto over the bench in one stride and pressed up against him.  “But have this for starters.”

The kiss was lewd and shameless, Eggsy’s hand coming up to pull Harry down to him by the back of the head, his lips apart and wet against him, tongue and teeth and the taste of spearmint.

 _“Eggsy.”_  His voice was supposed to come out as a warning - did he have to make it look like he was paying for it? - but he suspected it hadn’t. Why did that make heat curl around in his belly like that?

But of course Eggsy knew exactly how people would turn to gawp at this pretty boy suddenly sticking his tongue down the throat of the well dressed man they’d hitherto  unconsciously assumed to be his father. And he knew exactly how Harry would react to that.

“Chill, Harry, I’m just saying thank you. Manners maketh, and all that.” Oh, that wink. Those firm fingertips. One hand braced on his shoulder, the other  gripping into his hip as eggsy kissed him without any trace of embarrassment or shame, ensuring anyone who had stopped to look a worthwhile view of Harry's trousers being pulled taut over his admittedly well-shaped arse as well as eggsys tongue rolling smoothly against his, lips trailing off to kiss along his jaw and back, which meant…

Eggsy was on tiptoe, grinning against Harry's lips, weight balancing through his arm over Harry's shoulder and looking all of a hair's breadth from kicking one foot back and being the cover of a 1940s romance. It was all Harry could do not to sweep him into his arms and carry him home like a bride over a threshold, but he restrained himself and they walked like relatively normal people, hand in hand all the way home.

Later, Eggsy had accused Harry of having "a chav fetish", whilst he posed about in front of the mirrored wardrobe of the guest room in his brand new holographic gold and blinding white Nikes.

“You concede, then, that they are in fact unbearably tacky.”

“Yeah, and look how much you like it. I look mint.”

“You do.” It was Eggsy’s swagger, more than anything, his eagerness to strut out in the high end, real versions of what he'd been wearing a year or so before ( _“What do you mean ‘real’?” “Well they ain't snide, is they,”_ ) that made it appealing. Eggsy liked wearing a proper suit, liked the way it looked on him but the occasional indulgence in not only being pyjamas-comfortable but bright and flashy brought out a sort of glee in him that Harry couldn't resist.

“I'm concerned someone might think you've been caught up in a people trafficking operation.”

“What,” Eggsy began in a tone that almost made Harry reluctant to let him finish,  “One of them where they lure you away telling you they're going to give you a job and a better life, and shower you with expensive presents and the next thing you know you're handcuffed to a radiator in some old perv’s basement?”

“It's a wine cellar, Eggsy.”

Eggsy burst into laughter, dancing eyes clipping quickly to the door that lead downstairs as if in consideration. And then he’d sidled over to put one arm around Harry’s waist and rest a hot hand on the small of his back. 

“Nah. I think they're gonna think, look at that lad - fit, ain't he? - and all his nice gear.” He gave Harry a surprisingly camp little twirl before settling back at his side, voice low, leaning in close.  “Reckon he's lifted it? Or do you reckon that bloke he's with’s his sugar daddy.” A heartbeat, for the word to sink in, for the heat to bloom. “Older fella looks like he's worth a few. Reckon he spoils him rotten as long as he puts out." His voice dripped clever seduction. "But the question is are those,” he stretched a foot out and circled his toe to let the light shine off the sparkling accents on his shoes, “a reward, or a downpayment?”

Harry swallowed down a groan. Eggsy has an uncanny knack for knowing when he's caught a weak spot, perhaps even before Harry realises he has one. Perhaps he does like to treat Eggsy to the things he hasn’t had, sometimes. And yes, perhaps he doesn’t mind if people notice that he’s keeping him well, that he appreciates what he has. Trust Eggsy to find the pulse of that guilty heat and want to put his thumb right on it.

“What do you think they'll add up then?” It had almost been worthy of an interrogation technique: apply pressure, sustain impact, and then twist. “That you'll be rough with me? Selfish, pushy? That you'll use me for whatever you want considering I probably don't know any better, and you've more or less paid for it…oOr that you dote on me with the attention as well as the presents? Worship me, like you can't get over how lucky you are to get your hands on this. On a boy half your age _, really_ Harry.” He tutted, took Harry’s hands and laid them on his hips, the movement just enough to push his shirt up so that Harry’s hands touched bare skin and it wasn’t obvious if that was deliberate but his skin _burned._  “That you'll Do all the things nobody else has bothered to, teach me how good it can be with someone who knows what they're doing and treasures me… someone experienced… “

Harry’d known he was being guided into a roleplay even though parts of it were alarmingly close to truth, but there was no shame in hamming it up if the idea was much of a turn on for Eggsy as for him. He couldn’t help but duck in and take the invitation to kiss the boy breathless, hand coming up to sweep through his hair having to throw his cap to the side first.

“Which one of those would you like it to be?”

“Oh, definitely both…”

And isn't that Eggsy all over: by turns earnest and coquettish, either brazenly confident or curious and determined depending on his experience with the topic at hand, entirely unashamed of his sexuality and absolutely happy to hand over the reins when Harry has something to show him.

“Which one are you in the mood for _now_ …”  Harry is sure there’d been a time at which he’d have considered four o’clock in the afternoon sex to be an indulgence consigned to the past, but to resist would have been a terrible waste of the hours before dinner, and where Eggsy is concerned the word ‘no’ seems to have entirely dropped out of his vocabulary.

“Oh, I definitely owe you, is how I see it.”  

Harry only let him continue because the broad, dirty grin said he absolutely didn't: He was chuffed with the thought bwhind the gift if anything, now that he easily had his own means, but it was jncrwasibly appearing he might have been just as pleased with the opportunity to indulge his own little kink for showing off using his wiles (as he'd described them, pink tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip as if incidentally), to ‘bag’ himself a rich older bloke. Harry supposed he would only be truly surprised if Eggsy ever stopped surprising him.

“So why don't you lie down, get comfy and let me show you some proper gratitude?”

Eggsy could carry on whispering all the sweet nothings about how spoilt he was, how well kept  - with one hand pressed into the centre of Harry's chest to keep him flat on the bed, the other thoroughly working himself open on slick fingers - because, for all Harry's quavers of confidence, he was absolutely sure they would still be doing exactly this if Eggsy had bought his own damned trainers. If Harry was penniless and they were living in the exact same sink estate he'd taken such joy and relief in yanking Eggsy out of at the first opportunity.

Perhaps not _exactly_ this, because fortuitously amongst the packages collected had been an embarrassingly generous supply - mercifully discreetly shipped - of what Eggsy would call “the not-fucking-about lube”. He'd only ever used the watery, cheap, medical smelling brands they sell in supermarkets or baby oil until Harry had introduced him to the proper stuff: just another step in his introduction to the finer things in life, and Eggsy was easily converted. He'd been sceptical at first, but Harry had spent patient and ‘selfless’ hours showing him all the benefits of the silky formulas that were actually made specifically for the purpose, fingering him easily without pull or friction until he came sobbing; slicking him up with handfuls and allowing him to just rut into the grip of Harry’s thighs whilst Harry held him and whispered the filthiest encouragements he could come up with.

So that's another indulgence that's worth every penny, every time, as far as Harry's concerned.

And the sight of Eggsy’s arse dripping generously with the thick, glistening white fluid even before he sank down on Harry's cock - straddling him, facing away with his hands braced on Harry's knees -  was definitely one of the finer things in life.

*******

Eggsy had actually picked the spot in front of the only cupboard Harry needed to access to stand in front of as he was preparing to decant the dog biscuits into tupperware, so it wasn’t so transparently just a reason to put his hands on him that Harry wrapped his arms around Eggsy’s midsection, pulled him against his side and lifted him out of the way, but Eggsy let out an embarrassing giggly squeal and then covered it by camping it up even further.

“Ooh, _Daddy_! Calm down, don’t put your back out." It was evident from the brief slash of apprehension that he was  testing the word out, ready to pass it off as an off colour joke if Harry didn't receive it well.

And obviously the right thing to do was resist, was to call Eggsy a dirty little pervert - which didn't help one bit, as it happened, probably a poor choice of words - and put a stop to it, but there was no immediate shudder of revulsion. There was such a clear delineation between this and...well, you couldn't address your actual father like that even if that weren't such a sore spot for both of them, that would just be obscene.

It was a porn thing, wasn't it?  The only way it had previously crossed Harry’s radar was as a staple of questionably produced older man/twink material that if either of them would admit to watching would probably feature a lot more heavily in the entertainment schedule than it does. But Harry has no children and Eggsy has no childhood sexual trauma to be seeking to address and that's about as far as Harry was ever willing to psychoanalyse that one because before he could say much else on the matter his lack of protest had already agreed for him and Eggsy was wriggling against him, the line of his hard cock pressed into Harry's thigh.

It was strangely similar to how quickly he'd relented on occasionally allowing Eggsy to call him ‘sir’ in the bedroom. He'd protested at first, but then...

_“Now ‘arry,’ Eggsy had levelled seriously, his lapse into his natural accent conveying more sincerity than his Received Pronunciation ever could.  “Do you actually not like it, ‘cause I’ll stop, or is this one of them things where you say you don't like it because you feel like that's the gentlemanly thing to do? Because that's telling me you're fine with it.” And Eggsy had pointed at Harry's unwaveringly rock hard dick then and Harry's answer had been something incredibly eloquent like “bollocks” and that had been that._

It was very much the same vein. Just near enough to the knuckle to work, just far from it enough to be enjoyably taboo without opening up whole cans of emotional conflict. Harry had never had a lover he could be so playful with, much less one he trusted enough to weather the fallout if it went embarrassingly wrong, and he rewards Eggsy for his bravery in coming forward with something he might enjoy by picking the ball up swiftly and running with it. Might as well go for a try.

“Is that what you want, my boy?” The tone cam awkwardly out of his mouth but it was worth it for the way he could feel a shake run all the way through Eggsy’s body at the grip Harry tightened on him as he said “ _uhuh,_ ” and then, given lease to do so, _“yes daddy_ ”.

Harry could get used to that. Eggsy had slipped and called him ‘bruv’ once, which had made him cringe to the depths of his very soul, but this felt wrong in a different way altogether: the better way, the way that made that slow fizz of arousal start to spread out over his back. It was just a word. A filthy one, in context, all the pretend innocence sapped out of it by the way Eggsy breathed it at him like that, asking if he'd been a good boy, if daddy was going to fuck him...

“Carry on like that,  young man, and I'll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Ugh!”

It's rare to hear a noise like that unbidden groan come out of his cocky, streetwise lover and Harry always feels a rush of pride when he manages to find something that gets under his skin: Eggsy will have you believe that he's been there, done that about absolutely everything, and he does indeed seem to accept as standard some acts Harry suspects might not have been invented last time he had a regular partner to try them with. But that in particular seemed to be pushing buttons he felt  to assume weren’t ones Eggsy had had pressed before.

“You're not too big to be put over my knee, you know.”

“Fuck.”  Eggsy almost fell against Harry's chest, mouthing at his neck whilst his hands fumbled about at his shirt at the small of his back, trying to find skin. “Harry. Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please _daddy?_ ”

Harry choked on a laugh. Oh, this boy. “No, love,  I genuinely don't know what you're asking me to do.”

“Fuck. Neither do I,” and the rest of whatever he was going to say was only a moan. Wherever fantasy had carried Eggsy, he was lost to coherent input and content simply to melt against Harry's body whilst he kissed him.

Trailing one hand down to hook behind Eggsy’s knee as if incidentally, Harry hoiked his legs up around his waist, lifted him and backed him into a wall. Jesus, the boy’s a lump and a half but Harry doesn't keep up with all that weight training just to do boring shit like assault courses and dangling off the side of buildings.

“Will this do?”

Eggsy laid his head back to bump softly on the wall, baring his throat to be kissed and bitten, opening it out into a groan.

“ _Yes._ Yes, it fucking will.”

*******

“You’re gorgeous, you know that.” Eggsy had wandered up behind where Harry sat shirtless at the bureau in the bedroom and bent to nuzzle into the silvering hair at his temple, warm bare chest just brushing against Harry’s broad, toned back, so that his lips touched Harry’s ear when he rumbled more than really speaking. “Come with me today?” His attempts to get Harry to stay in bed had been, whilst highly persuasive, eventually unsuccessful so apparently he'd opted to change tack.

“I thought you were pub lunching with your old school lot? You don't want me tagging along.”

“- Bloody do. I'm gonna have to make up the rest of how well I've done for myself. Be nice to have some indication I’ve not just become a delusional prick.”  His hands wandered, leaving little trails of tingles on Harry’s skin.

“You'll enjoy it when you get there.” Christ, but he actually did sound like he was his father sometimes. “Let me know if you want picking up.”

Eggsy sighed theatrically, close to a swoon. “When do I not want you to pick me up, babes?”

It was an odd thing, being so openly admired. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced it quite so intensely, and for it to come from Eggsy of all people made it dizzying. And there’s was something so pure, so earnest about the boy that no amount of self deprecating instinct could make Harry bring himself to disagree. Besides, a gentleman accepts a compliment with grace.

Regardless, Harry had definitely experienced the joy of feeling like arm candy, as Eggsy described it, once or twice. Relationships were built on all sorts of factors, sociopolitical as well as romantic, and when you saw a couple as obviously mismatched as they were you assumed from two options: money was changing hands and/or the sex was incredible. Harry could draw a thrill from people thinking either, for some reason that probably doesn't bear digging into but probably involves the fact people find Eggsy so ridiculously, gratuitously lovely -  this chisel jawed, seaglass eyed Adonis he'd picked up from a South London custody suite -  that it would take some real sway for a mere mortal like Harry to have a chance. Like he must be doing _something_ very, very well indeed.

What's even better is when Eggsy takes it upon himself to show him off. To stand in the face of all those sordid preconceptions, squeeze Harry's arse and wink _I know, ain't I lucky._

And he is good for him, they're good for each other. In just a couple of short years they've weathered challenges no couple should ever have to face, and the result of near death experiences sharply punctuating their burgeoning domesticity seems to be an extended honeymoon period.  World domination plots notwithstanding, it was about time eggsy got to bloom under the affections of someone so utterly, helplessly besotted with him. Harry is not one to recount his lucky stars too often in case he comes up short one day, so he accepts that the feeling is mutual. He treats Eggsy well, supports him and makes him happy.

Plus, sometimes he wants to get a particularly lurid picture of Eggsy with his ankles slung over Harry’s shoulders - of him sweat-drenched with that flushed, pinched, almost snarling face he makes at the crest of orgasm when he comes from being fucked alone, fists clenched tight in Harry’s eight hundred thread count Egyptian fucking cotton sheets - so that he can shine it up on a  nearby wall at a moment’s notice in illustration. _Yes, so I’m knocking on a bit. Find me a twenty two year old Hollister Saturday-boy who can do that to him and I’ll concede the point._

He'd finished his paperwork, tidied the study and was in the process of debating whether to start in the laundry when a notification of a message from Merlin pinged in.

_[You might want to drop by the pub and make a guest appearance. Sharpen up. Your boy is talking quite the big game about you.]_

Merlin is in fact a sappy old git. Harry was about to ask him why on earth he was listening in on Eggsy’s catch up with old acquaintainces when hpatched a clip of audio through to him, by the sounds of it the tail end of Eggsy waxing lyrical about the tailors’, with specific regard to Harry. There was a pointed comment about Eggsy having trouble keeping up with _him, actually if anything_ , which can generally only have come from one line of questioning and it makes Harry's face flush.

“How old _is_ this boyfriend of yours, Eggs?”

“Fifty two.” Silence, a whistle from somewhere, the crackle of sleeve as Eggsy puts something into his mouth. _Stop talking whilst you’re chewing._ “Bloody fit fifty two, n’all.” Something inaudible. Really, what was the use of the button bugs if they could only pick up the agent?  “Nah, I didn’t realise I was much on the whole silver fox thing either but I took one look at him and I was like right, I’m having that.” _Did you indeed._

So he was already buttoning a particularly good shirt and working out an errand to sweep him away to when the message had popped up from Eggsy.

 _[Are you busy? Fancy swinging by the pub and picking me up? May or may not have been showing off about you. I can get pics out if you've got better things to do]_ and a little yellow face blowing a kiss that Harry would never quite stoop to.

_[There is absolutely nothing I'd rather do than you. On my way in five.]_

He made it out of the door in ten minutes, which wasn't too bad, and twenty in a taxi with a mercifully taciturn driver was more than enough to spend with thoughts of Eggsy flattering him like he's heard him do a few times, giving that obscene wink in response to any reservations about Harry's age, laying the barely decent hints about the benefit of experience on thick - the benefit of experience in this case being a direct and not at all subtle euphemism for the benefit of sharing a bed with a man who's been sucking cock for longer than you have existed.

Harry tidied himself up before he made his entrance, because he knew Eggsy would have picked a corner table with a view of the door, and therefore it was highly likely he’d be seen as soon as he walked through it. He timed briefly, tactically adjusting his cuffs to absolute perfection so that he could look up just to catch Eggsy when his attention was drawn by the door clicking closed.

“Harry!” Eggsy stood from the table and spent a long second looking Harry right down and back up again, taking in the precise press of his mid-grey Glen Check suit.  Never let it be said that Harry Hart was not sharp on any given day. Harry pulling the stops out could be breathtaking if he did it right.

There was a definite, deliberate tilt to Eggsy’s hips when he slunk up to him and slid his hands around Harry's waist under his jacket, showing off his body on his behalf: the flat of his chest, the narrow of his waist - he was a bloody fit fifty-two, thank you very much - looking up at him through his lashes as he stretched up for a kiss which Harry was only too happy to indulge.

“Hello, darling boy.”

The hint of a whistle. “Hel _lo_ daddy.”  His voice was low under his breath and almost against Harry’s mouth, nobody would have heard him but it was still enough to make the back of Harry’s neck and the tips of his ears prickle with heat. _Shit. Merlin._ Harry would not be hearing the end of that one for a while. “You look _lovely._ ”

Eggsy took Harry’s hand, laced their fingers and spun round to return to the table with him, seemingly oblivious to the devastation he could wreak on Harry’s composure in a split second, and about to make it worse.

“This is my boyfriend.” He pronounced it looking at Harry, too much tongue between his teeth, like the word itself tasted good in his mouth. 

It’s not a term Harry uses unless talking to people they know or making a deliberate point: coming from him it somehow sounds like he might be about to say boy toy, or that he is being flippant. 'Lover' is the label he most often attaches in his own head although in public that could sound smutty; 'partner' is probably the most appropriate word but the one Eggsy had always defaulted to was ‘boyfriend’ and there was something so… _unavoidable_ about that, especially the way he said it, that it made Harry's stomach jump and his face burn every time.

“Harry Hart. It's a real pleasure.” He extended a perfect handshake to each of Eggsy’s friends in turn, repeated each name, noted a detail to assist his memory later. “And I’m afraid I must steal Eggsy away from you, we have to drop buy some suppliers before they close.”

“S’alright darlin'. I did warn them we had work things to get to this afternoon.” _Yeah,_ _I told them I was sleeping with my boss, too_ his eyes cut into the following seconds silence. Eggsy’s gaze dripped molten heat, and Harry had the distinct feeling that not much of the keenness in his body language was for show. Quite what he’d done to inspire it, he had no idea, but he could only coax it along with a hand softly drawing down the back of Eggsy’s neck. Eggsy breathed out a clipped, restrained little sigh, and sometimes it was like someone had slightly turned the saturation down on the rest of the universe.

“Quite. Then we must drop by to walk JB, and then I thought you might allow me to take you for dinner as the time to go shopping has entirely slipped away from me.”

“How about you pop home and let the dog out and I'll pick us up some takeaway.” Just in case his tone hadn't made it abundantly obvious, Eggsy plastered himself to Harry again, fingers walking up his lapel to fiddle with his collar, eyes following slowly up to Harry's face and getting stuck at his lips. “I kind of fancy an evening in.”

After knowing farewells Eggsy had tucked his hand into Harry's back pocket and strolled out into the sunshine, looking for all the world like the cat that had not had to look for the cream but had it presented to it in a bespoke bowl by room service to its favourite patch of sunshine: smug did not begin to cover it. It was a very becoming look on him.

Harry had been literally, physically hot under the collar all the way home. He'd yanked his tie off the moment they were in the door and gone for the stairs two at a time: he was too warm, too sticky, it was ridiculous. Taking the dog for a walk and picking up Chinese would have to wait until he'd calmed himself down.

“Oi. Where are you off to?”

“For a cold shower, you incorrigible tart.”

“Oh no you're not, get back here.” And as soon as he was within reach Eggsy had grabbed him by the jacket and yanked him in for the sort of kiss he wasn’t about to try in public even when he was deliberately courting the stares, wet and full of insistent tongue and careless teeth whilst he pulled Harry’s clothes off him.

Being so ably manhandled by Eggsy; feeling the real potential of his strong, powerful build combined with the undeniable ferocity of his desire was intoxicating. Harry could probably still overpower him if he wanted to, with agility and cunning if not with sheer force, but he had no urge to test that theory at all.  As it was, he’d been more than happy to relent as Eggsy had tackled him to the sofa and given him the sort of seeing to he hadn't had since… he was Eggsy’s age, probably, which was an entirely disgusting thought.  Harry didn't mind a bit.

***

One morning, Eggsy had caught him looking wistfully at the corner of the bedside table, lost in a rather enjoyable daydream, still sporting the erection he’d woken up with. 

“Penny for them, Haz?”

“I was thinking that I'd very much like to take you to the opera.”

“You what.” Eggsy paused and looked at him seriously for a moment. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Not at all. There's a production of The Magic Flute coming up at the Haymarket.”

“That's definitely a euphemism.”

“I promise it isn't.” Although Harry did have to concede the point. “And if you absolutely do not follow this with anything about a magic flute coming up anyone's haymarket I will try to book us some tickets.”

Eggsy hadn't been sure that sounded like much of a reward at all, and perhaps the topic was not quite the non-sequitur it had seemed: Harry had been entertaining a heated train of thought -  watching Eggsy potter around in his jeans and rolled up shirtsleeves, slightly hungover, nursing a mug of coffee -  about how effortlessly, objectively fucking _beautiful_ he is, and what a lucky bugger that makes Harry, and about quite how much he enjoys people coming to that conclusion on their own. And the posh set are particularly fun to wind up, so a nice non-work-related evening out had seemed well in order.

The event had simply remained a point on the calendar until it arrived, until Harry was ready to leave, standing in the bedroom doorway watching Eggsy finish knotting his tie - perfect, he looked so perfect - before walking over to undo it for him.

“ _Harry._ Don't start, yeah? Because I'm not all that fussed on the opera enough to stop you and I don't want you sulking on me if we waste our tickets.”

Harry chuckled at Eggsy’s reflection. “You look wonderful. But you're overdressed.”

“ _You're_ in a suit.” A good one, too.

“Exactly.” He removed Eggsy’s tie and took his jacket away from him. Pressing up close behind him, Harry kissed at the nape of Eggsy’s neck whilst his hands were busy unfastening his collar and then enough buttons to just flash the very top of his undershirt. “I’d rather you were _comfortable_.” The word comfortable did not mean comfortable at all, when he said it like that, breath hot on Eggsy’s skin and voice full of hunger.  “You look breathtaking, all done up. But I'm afraid I rather like showing off a little more of you than that dashing single breasted allows for.”

“Will they even let me in like this?”

“Just about.” Eggsy met his eyes in the mirror quizzically, before realisation dawned just as Harry removed his cufflinks, turning his sleeves up for him, neatly but far enough to nicely showcase the thickness of his forearms. “You've got smart shoes on. You're with me. They won't turn you away for looking a little… out of water.”

Harry brushed his fingers through Eggsys hair, loosening the wax enough to have a lock threaten to fall from the neat side parting at the front, ever so slightly shadowing one eye. It made him look younger, somehow, and Eggsy could clearly see in the mirror how sharp it made the contrast between them: the older gentleman in the bespoke suit, his hand possessively on the waist of the fit young blonde who didn't look quite as at home in his expensive, new looking clothes.

“Yeah?” Eggsy cocked a hip and shifted his shoulders in a way that somehow seemed to entirely change the fit of his shirt, stretching his chest out without puffing, and Harry’s mouth dried out.  “Want me to be your bit of rough for the evening?”

“Oh darling, absolutely.” Harry ducked in to kiss at the bit of his neck now accessible thanks to the loosened collar, sorely tempted to bite and mark him. Let everyone look, and if they were looking let them know beyond hushed speculation that this gorgeous specimen on Harry’s arm was not simply his theatre date. Or that if in fact he had paid for the pleasure of his company for the evening - Harry studiously ignored the extra flood of heat that dripped down his back at that thought, he’d tell Eggsy sometime when they didn’t have a car waiting - that he was at the very least getting his money’s worth.

“I'm not kidding Haz, you're making hours of sitting listening to some bird wailing about a fucking flute less and less appealing.”

“Well." Harry did not attempt to pretend this line of conversation was not one he'd anticipated. "If you happen to get bored and not be able to keep your hands to yourself, I expect I could stand to be seen being pawed at by this gorgeous creature I've managed to persuade to come and share my booth with me…”

“We've got a booth?”

“ _I've_ got a booth, and you can stop that train of thought right there. Though I would not be all that upset about leaving it empty should we get as far as the interval and decide that sneaking off might be the better part of…”Hhe loses the word for a moment against the warm skin of Eggsys throat, "...discretion? We'd doubtless be spotted. And you not think we look just perfect for the images that conjures up?”

“That you're taking me home so I can shag you silly and we'll be lucky if we make it out of the cab first?”

“Mhmm.”

“Fine. Good, yeah. But if you don't pack that in we ain't going to make it _to_ the cab in the first place, let alone the fucking theatre.”

They did. Just about.

***

It was suprising how normal meetings could be, how accustomed one becomes to sitting around an antique table stacked with improbable gadgetry, discussing world-altering events with people who had murdered many and saved more, one of whom you may or may not have been up to your bollocks in before breakfast. Harry is forever grateful for colleagues that are bothered by neither their workplace relationship nor their timekeeping.

That's not to say he doesn't get a thorough ribbing from Merlin about it: he just accepts it with good grace and a vague idea of eventual revenge.

“Eggsy. How are you getting on with that briefing pack?”

It would've been interesting to see how convincing a liar he was, considering when Harry had reminded him of it on the way in that morning, Eggsy had struggled to remember even having been given one. Though, he had also been strugling to get his legs to hold him at the time. Harry smirked into his mug, seemingly randomly, and hoped nobody noticed.

“Uh. It ain't gonna do me any good if I say the dog ate it?”

“Considering it was emailed, no.” Merlin was in surprisingly good humour considering it was later than anybody wanted to stay on a Thursday afternoon, and he was Merlin. It was probably best not to try to guess why.

“You're going to need to know it inside out before you get to Monaco. Nobody is going to believe you're a serious buyer unless you're a borderline obsessive collector, not at your age.”

“‘Spose there's no chance whatsoever I can chuck on a nice tight shirt, look a bit gormless and just be Harry's trophy husband?”

Merlin had laughed good naturedly at him - something was definitely amiss -  rather than rising to the bait. “No! I want the pair of you to actually get some bloody work done.”

Whether that was in reference to Harry's disappointingly predictable response to Eggsy in revealing clothes or a subtle reminder not to abuse the privilege of being sent on the trip together, Harry didn't have time to wonder because, apropos nothing, Roxy broke down into hysterics.

“I'm sorry!” She waved her hand in front of her face to ask for patience whilst she swallowed down the mouthful of black coffee she’d almost snorted out of her nose and composed herself enough to speak. “I know what you _said_ , but what I _heard_ was mail order bride.”  She lifted her voice into an appalling approximation of a thick Eastern European accent, purely for comedic effect considering her actual pronunciation was typically flawless, leaning to cock her head and nod earnestly at Eggsy. “My English... not good. My husband teach me. My, how is the word… _blowjobs_ is better. Da.”

"Oh for fuck's sake." Merlin had lost all semblance of control.

Eggsy joined Roxy in the giggles with a friendly “oh fuck off”, even Merlin cracked a wry smile. All Harry could do was rub at the back of his neck and try not to let his face give him away. 

In fairness, for all the elocution lessons they can chuck at him, Eggsy’s blowjobs _are_ in fact still better than his grammar. He knows it, too.

“Shut up, I didn't even - ! Anyway, if I needed a passport and a visa, I'd ask Merlin.”  He affected a pout which was clearly intended to be exaggerated but had the surprising effect of genuinely making him look like a model. “I just want to go and look pretty by a hotel pool and you can call me when you want someone's arse kicked down their own neck. Don't need to know nothing about anything for that.”

A hot, tight little thrill shuddered down Harry's body and he cursed it instantly before softening to it. Eggsy playing dumb arm candy was a guilty pleasure best enjoyed outside of critical missions, but it wouldn't be the first time he’d used a new audiende to pander to the Pretty Woman aspect apparently for his own enjoyment as much as Harry's. It was something of a natural conclusion of the very visible differences combined with the obvious and unquestioning commitment which Eggsy seemed so comfortable overestimating, even if he hadn't realised quite what he'd actually said.

Maybe he did. There was no way he wasn't aware of how frequently, under those circumstances, some old lech would congratulate Harry on snapping the boy up to keep him for himself, and he only ever politely agreed. Perhaps he'd only hesitated because men of Eggsy’s age were so notorious for being pathological commitmentphobes and he'd presumed - foundlessly, apparently- that he'd run a country mile at the mere suggestion, even when Eggsy had so frequently and openly sought reassurance that he was not simply another of the casual dalliances Harry had kept the company of throughout his Kingsman career. It’d made Harry sound vaguely promiscuous, but then on consideration he had in all probability shagged more men than Eggsy had had home cooked meals.

 _“I don't care how long the list is, Harry,” he'd qualified soberly, with a soft kiss. “I just want to be at the bottom of it.”_   And though that had so nearly been true for all the wrong reasons,  Harry was not disinclined to hold him to it. Not at all.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be brains as well as beauty for once, Eggsy." Did Merlin just call him beautiful? "

Even if it weren't the occasion for it, it was worth noting how Eggsy's eyebrow had quickly ticked at the idea of being so prominently shown off, like a particuarly expensive accessory: empty headed, there to be admired, a toy operated by the judicious application of one or two factors. He'd play the role well, and they'd undoubtedly get off on it later. Eggsy enjoyed watching people try to work out who he had arrived with - so clearly not from this set himself, but brushed up and polished by a doting sponsor; what special skills he might have to ply to ensure his mark stayed interested: it was, after all, a buyer's market. He liked it when he saw the way he and Harry looked together, the way they looked at each other, and apparently saw newly wedded bliss.

Harry saw the other side of those glances. The hunger that made him physically prickle with jealous pride. The curiosity. The people who wanted to ask how it worked, who was what, where they'd met (even if they'd already started guessing at specific websites). Those who sidled up only to be plainly vulgar, or to actually ask for the websites. Those who had to consider perhaps, that Harry himself has wiles to ply beyond his chequebook because face it, that beautiful boy by his side could have _anyone,_ and the places they frequented were hardly short of lonely old men with money to burn: looking like Eggsy did would make it like shooting fish in a barrel, with Eggsy's actual marksmanship, so there had to be some reason he'd so willingly given himself to Harry. _Permanently, apparently,_ and wasn't that interesting.

In any case, it was obvious no amount of designer presents and easy living could make him look at someone like he does Harry, an ever fluctuating ratio of heady adoration, casual affection and and unadulterated want.

At that moment, Harry abruptly had perhaps the last in a series of necessary epiphanies in accepting that he is not delusional: he is every bit the lucky old bugger everyone thinks, and for more reasons than anyone has conjured in their most vivid gossip.

Eggsy turned that gaze on Harry then, mostly smoulder with the rest just about in check, possibly a deliberate attempt to make their colleagues merrily uncomfortable.

“You hearing this, Harry. They want us to make it look like you want me for my _dinner conversation_.” The little quirk of the eyebrows said he knew exactly how much Harry actually valued their intellectual connection: he was either baiting Harry or everyone else.

“Tonight’s is going to have to be your fine art revision, by the sound of it.” _See, Merlin. I_ can _mix business with pleasure._

Merlin gave up and started to repack his bag. The meeting had gone thoroughly to shit and he knew it.

One last stab.  “Whatever. Keep me in fur coats and blood diamonds and you can bore me to death whenever you like, yeah? Da?” And then, in almost the same breath, full of warmth with all the mocking gone, “Do you want a coffee for the road Haz? I'll catch you up downstairs.”

“I've got some errands to run in town, actually. I'll see you at home.”

Harry did not take Eggsy shopping with him that afternoon, much as still accepts that he guiltily enjoys people watching the boy coo at pretty things until Harry shoves his credit card at someone. He didn't need him there.

He’d be a piss poor spy if he didn't already know his ring size.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback, comments and prompts gratefull received.
> 
> I am also volunteering as a Brit Picker! I'm a born and bred Londoner who has now brushed up enough to be allowed to reside in Sussex, with cockney credentials that are best summed up by the fact the woman who plays Nancy in Oliver! was my nan's best friend at school and that, on watching Legend, I got homesick before fondly announcing "oh, we had that tea set." I can definitely slip between Harry's and Eggsy's accents (and do, mostly depending on who I'm talking to and what I've been drinking).
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: randomactsofviolence . I like making new friends.


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